The Resident Patient
by girl1213
Summary: 2nd of Sherlene Holmes. A mysterious resident patient calls on Sherlene's help against some burglars, only to die the next day when he refuses to answer Sherlene's questions. SPOILERS!
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Exams are done! College is out! Summer's here (if rainy)! My nephew's new baby brother has been born at last! And I got the first chapter of my second Sherlene Holmes' Story finished!

I'm not over happy with it though, due to the fact I had lost some of my inpiration due to all the excitment life's thrown at me (and still is). Yet somehow I got it done and I hope it's good enough despite how weak it seems to me.

This is my written verison of the fourth episode of season two Granada Television's Sherlock Holmes, which aired on 9/15/1985. Due to the content of a hanging suicide/murder this is episode (and thus my story) must be **view with discretion**. If you aren't comfortable with the concept of hanging, please do not read the scene coming up in a couple of chapters. I'll post a Warning Sign for everyone to see where the scene with the hanged man is coming up.

**Also,** there's a poll on my profile on what story/episode I should do next. But if there isn't one to anyone likling chose "Other?" and you can send any recommandations on episode I should do for my 3rd Sherlene Holmes.

Disclaimer: I own nothing expect the idea and Sherlene. This has been made purly for entertainment.

That being said, enjoy! And don't forget to review

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><p><strong>The Resident Patient<strong>

Tap.

Tap.

Tap tap tap.

Tap. Tap.

Tap tap tap tap.

Tap tap tap.

Tap tap tap tap tap tap.

Tap.

For the past several minutes, Sherlene Holmes had been drumming the fingers of her left hand against the wood polished arm of the barber chair she was occupying as she waited for the barber man to finish up with Watson's monthly haircut.

Watson had been astonished when the woman detective came into the small barbershop that was located only a down the street away from 221B. Due to barbershops' unmentionable reputation*, Sherlene hardly ever stepped into the domain of one. To see her inside a place where even the Great Women Detective dared not enter unless it was strictly necessary to do so, was a great amazement to Watson, causing him to wonder what made her dare enter this private forbidden domain.

But instead of asking her outright, Watson decided this would be a perfect opportunity to practice his deduction skills on her. It had been a while since he last tried to do "the trick" on her and he was determined to one day finally get it right.

"You mustn't take it so badly, Holmes."

Immediately, the drumming fingers stopped and Sherlene's eyes opened, her face scrunching up a bit to show her puzzlement. She turned her head to look at her friend and with a baffled tone asked, "What?"

"Well, I know it's inconvenient…" Watson continued, "But you really mustn't let it affect you like this?"

The confusion grew in Sherlene's face and voice. "What ever do you mean?"

Watson turned his head slightly to give her a palpable look. He ignored the slight frown the barber man shot his way for moving but the man continue working nevertheless. "

You are sitting there," Watson began to explain his reached conclusion from watching her intently for several minutes. He still needed much practice on getting a deduction as quick as Sherlene did, "Boiling with indignation because you have been forced to leave the warmth and comfort of 221B by the irate of Mrs. Hudson's spring cleaning."

Confusion smoothly slipped away from Sherlene's face as she shifted to get more comfortable sitting in the uncomfortable barber chair. Folding her hands almost lady-like on her lap, a slight raise in the corner of Sherlene's mouth gave way to her hidden amusement of the situation as she asked, "My dear Watson how ever did you deduce that?"

Watson grinned widely in victory. By the way Sherlene was acting, Watson felt that he had finally gotten a hold of the deduction trick his friend seemed to know so well. "By simply applying your methods Holmes."

"Indeed."

"You'll agree that you are not here for either a shave or a haircut."

"That is true. How did you know?"

"Because you invariably shave yourself and cut your hair by yourself."

For a second, the slight rise went a little higher. "Correct," Sherlene answered, her tone even

"And you left our rooms in some haste. You are either without your skirt, your gloves or your cane."

Sherlene's eyes glanced down, almost in amusement, towards her lap where her gloveless pale hands lay folded on her light gray trouser clad lap as though checking to confirm Watson's deduction.

"Go on," she said

"Well," Watson continued, "I know that Mrs. Hudson has been trying to complete her spring cleaning all day. Now…" He paused, shifting a little his chair to face Sherlene's direction a little better. "You have been sitting there frowning. Eyes tightly closed. Grinding your teeth. And all the time, your fingers have been drumming like pistons on the arm of that chair."

Sherlene could no longer hold back the smile

"So…" Watson finished his pride growing at Sherlene's actions, "Given all this evidence, even I cannot fail to deduced that you have quarreled with our good housekeeper…" Sherlene face fell. "…and sought refuge in the sanity of the barbershop, a place where I know even you would not enter unless under the most perilous of circumstances."

The doctor let out a victorious low chuckle which, if Sherlene allowed herself to admit, was a little eerie for him.**

"You cannot deny that am I right," he chuckled. He turned back into his original position in his chair, a smile of victory on his face

With hilarity now freely shining on her eyes, Sherlene let out a disappointed sigh. "Ah, Watson…you could not be further from the truth."

Watson's head snapped back into her direction in confusion, the smile replace with a perplexed frown.

Sherlene reached into the flap of her grey coat and pulled out an envelope. "I am here…" she explained opening the envelope "…to get our good barber's advice as to this specimen of hair found at the scene of the Bloody Mist adventure last Tuesday in Denford." She held up the little fold piece of paper containing the hair up from the envelope, showing it to Watson. The barber, having heard Sherlene, glanced at it but went back to work.

Watson looked at her disbelievingly. "Oh! Come along, Holmes!" he said, incredulous as Sherlene dropped the hair back in the envelope and slipped the envelope back into her coat "You're worried about something!"

"What you perceived as agitation was indeed the most…" Sherlene said calm and smoothly, turning her head to look back at the doctor with a look of pleasure on her face "…intense tranquil enjoyment."

Still seeing the rather funny disbelief confusion on the doctor's face, Sherlene decided to explain to her befuddled friend. "My eyes were closed because I was trying to recalled, as vividly as I could, the concert we attended last night."

It was true that they had attended a concert.

Musical concerts were one of the few things that Sherlene would willingly dress up to attend. They were also the only habit that Watson did not have to worry himself about with Sherlene's mental health when she was bored or tired. The last few cases had been long and challenging ones. Although Sherlene managed to solve them, she admitted she was feeling an extremely rare mental exhaustion from the long work. Upon hearing that admittance, Watson had worried that she was soon going to subject her magnificence brain the effects of the cocaine bottle once again. But his worries were put to rest that night for during their supper Sherlene had announced her desire to go to a symphony that was playing that night. And with that said, she hurried to get dress with Watson hastening to finish eating and get dressed into his own evening attire.

But that still did not account for that one other thing…

"You were grinding your teeth!" Watson told her

Sherlene gave a slight frown of displeasure as she explained, "That is because I made a slight error in my recollection of Yerkins' fingering his cadenza in the third movement of the Beethoven violin concerto…"

To exhibit what she was referring to, she began tapping the chair arm again, though this time in a blur rapid movement, causing the beats to blend together rather than the separate notes Sherlene created earlier with her slower taping movement. Now that Watson thought of it, as he listened to the beats, he did sort of recognize the blended beats sounding similar to the concerto Sherlene was referring to.

Turning away from his friend, Watson let out a disappointed sigh. Even after all these years, watching Sherlene and studying her methods, the trick was still frustratingly well out of his reach.

"Nevertheless," Sherlene spoke suddenly, breaking the small silence that had fallen between the two of them "…there is an element of truth in what you say."

"Ah!" Watson cheered, his face lighting up from his small bout of disappointment. So he had been right about something for once…even though he had no idea what it was.

Sherlene let out an embarrassed little laugh as Watson began that creepy low laugh of his.

* * *

><p>Watson felt Sherlene slip her hand onto the inside of his elbow when they had at last stepped out of the barbershop. He heard her give a quiet sigh of relief of finally leaving the unwritten forbidden territory. The slight soft pink hue on the edge of her cheeks faded away as they began to walk the short way back to their shared rooms, though Sherlene did politely wave goodbye to the barber.<p>

A parked carriage caught both the doctor and the woman's eye as they just stepped onto their neighbor's block. The carriage was rather extravagant compared to the normal carriages normal seen on the Backer Street. This carriage was rather shiny, making it well kept, and was pulled by two horses, meaning it came from someone with access to a lot of money. But what was interesting about this carriage was that it was parked outside of 221B…meaning a client had come to the house while Sherlene and Watson were out. Both the man and the lady paused in front of it and gave it their own studious looks.

"A doctor's," Watson said

"A general practitioner as I perceive," Sherlene said

"Not been long in practice or had much to do," Watson added

"Come to consult us, I fancy."

"Lucky we came back."

Sherlene gave his collarbone a slight slap before slipping her arm out of the crook of his elbow and heading toward the door of their home to meet the doctor awaiting them.

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><p>*The unmentionable reputation is the reason why 19th century women cut their own hair at home. If you want to know what it is that would keep Sherlene (and by extension, Mrs. Hudson) out, check out "The Art of Barbering Through the Ages" on Google and near the bottom, under 'Profession Declines'. *hides red face behind a pillow*<p>

**It was! Who agrees with me?


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: I thought I better post this now as my laptop is going to be out of commission for a couple of days to be rebuilt. Luckily for me the one doing the job is a relative of mine so it's being rebuilt for free and will be done much sooner then normal. The chapter is not as long as it should be but I think it'll do.

Hope you enjoy! And be sure to check my new poll on my profile!

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><p><strong>The Resident Patient<strong>

When Sherlene and Watson entered their home, the first thing Sherlene noticed was her black skirt hanging on the handrail of the seventeen steps leading up to the rooms. It was undoubtedly placed there by the courtesy of Mrs. Hudson when she noticed Sherlene had left the house without her skirt. Silently thanking the housekeeper, Sherlene slipped the skirt smoothly over her gray trouser clad legs as she ascended the stairs with Watson close behind, keeping an eye on her just in case she had an inopportune bout of clumsiness while putting on the skirt.

Luckily, Sherlene's sense of balance did not fail and, by the time they reached the landing, the skirt was securely fastened around her waist. The two paused to hang their hats and jackets on the standing coat rack outside of the open door leading into the sitting room. Upon entering the room, they passed by Mrs. Hudson, who was just leaving the sitting room.

"Ah, Ms. Holmes," the old woman greeted

"Thank you Mrs. Hudson," Sherlene said, both as a greeting and as a thanks for leaving out her skirt earlier.

"Doctor," the woman detective said welcomingly to the pale, taper-faced but sensibly handsome doctor who was standing by the fireplace awaiting her and Watson. The doctor was professional looking, his face clean-shaven and dark sandy-brown neat in his appearance, though Sherlene could lingering detect hints of unhealthy hard life in the paleness of his skin and weary dark eyes. While professional looking, his black frockcoat, dark trousers, and the bit of a green color on his necktie made him appear as quiet and somber individual.

Sherlene walked over to the pale doctor and politely took his hand in greeting. "This is my friend and colleague, Dr. Watson," the woman introduced gesturing a hand towards Watson, who nodded his greeting.

"Pray resume your seat and tell me how I may serve you," Sherlene told the visitor, releasing his hand

"I am indeed a doctor," the visitor said, a bit astonished that the woman figured out his profession without him saying anything. "My name is Dr. Percy Trevelyan. I live at 403 Brook Street."

Watson spoke up, instantly recognizing the visitor's name. "Aren't you the author of a monograph upon obscure nervous lesions*?" he asked, his medical interest shining in his excitement

"Yes," Dr. Trevelyan answered, his cheeks flushing a bit with delight at hearing that his work was known to someone "But I so seldom hear of the work that I thought it was quite dead."

"By no means!" Watson assured him with a smile, clasping his fellow doctor's hand for a moment.

"My publishers give me a most discouraging account of its sales," Dr. Trevelyan said to Dr. Watson as the two doctors sat down with Watson on the settee and Trevelyan sitting in the armchair Watson usually occupied.

"Um…" Trevelyan paused for a moment, rubbing his hands together a small bout of nervousness, "You are yourself a medical man?"

"Retired army surgeon," Watson answered

While the two doctors were talking, Sherlene was patiently setting up one of her pipes, indulging Watson to have his moment with Trevelyan. It wasn't often Watson got a chance to meet and engage in talk with other doctors in subjects they both took interest in. Sherlene herself had no interest in medical study unless it was about anatomy or it associated with whatever problem she needed solving during one of her cases. Of course, after the conclusion she would do her best to forget it since it would not matter a thing to her later.

"A person's brain is originally like a little empty attic," she had once explained to Watson "And you have to stock it with such furniture as you choose."

Sherlene lit her now readied pipe and took a puff as she continued to listen to the two doctors. "My hobby has always been the study of nervous disease," Trevelyan was saying "I should of course make it an absolute specialty, but a man must take what he can get at first."

Watson tilted his head in agreement.

"However," Trevelyan went on, his tone now growing serious, "This is beside the question." Trevelyan turned to look up at Sherlene, giving her his attention. "And I do appreciate, Ms. Holmes, how very valuable your time is. The fact is that a singular train of events has occurred recently at my house in Brook Street, and tonight they came to such a head that I felt it was impossible to wait another hour before asking for your advice and assistance."

Sherlene let out a small wisp of smoke before giving the doctor a small smile. "You are very welcome to both," she assured.

She turned to her chair and sat down, the small smile easily disappearing and her serious business-like face appear, ready to listen. "Let me have a detailed account of the circumstances which have disturbed you."

"One or two of them passed so trivial that I am almost ashamed to mention them," began the doctor, "But the matter is so inexplicable, and the recent turn which it has taken is so elaborate, that I shall lay it all before you, and you shall judge what is essential and what is not."

Sherlene tell out another puff of smoke in agreement.

Trevelyan paused for a second again to take a deep breath in, and started his story. "I am a London University man. And I'm not unduly singing my praises when I say I was a very promising student. And it was thought distinguished career lay before me. However there was one great stumbling block."

"Money?" Watson interrupted to ask

"Indeed, doctor, money," Trevelyan answered before continuing on, "I needed capital not only to practice but also to get out of the squalid rooms I was forced to rent."

That would explain the lingering traces of fragility in his body and face. If the doctor was forced to live in an extremely dirty and unpleasant housing, then illness and starvation was to be expected. Money would be hard to come by since no one with a decent amount of money in their pocket would want to go to a poverty house to meet a doctor, no matter how good he was.

"I could not expect my patients to trust me if I could not afford the proper equipment," Trevelyan explained what Sherlene already figured out.

"Yes, I've seen it happen to too many of us," Watson agreed, "I myself was obliged to go into the army in order to follow my career."

And if it hadn't been for that career-ending injury he received in the Battle of Maiwand, Watson might have just as well continued on as a professional army surgeon. But with his injury, he had fallen into poverty as Trevelyan had. If it hadn't been for the saving grace that came in the form of the Bohemian woman named Sherlene Holmes, Watson would have not had the modest practice he had now or be as healthy and fit as he was. The memory of those times made him wonder on how Dr. Trevelyan ended up looking as clean and healthy as he did now.

"Indeed," Trevelyan said to Watson before giving his attention back to Sherlene. "I had thought about abandoning my own career, expect for one sudden and unexpected incident."

"Exactly what kind of incident?" Sherlene asked, interest peaking

"One morning, two years ago," Trevelyan described, "I received a visit from a man by the name of Blessington, who until that time had been a complete stranger to me."

* * *

><p><em><span>Two years ago…<span>_

The morning trains could be heard from every room in the dosshouse*, making it hard for anyone to really hear anything unless it was at a high enough volume to cut through the noise the train made. It was one of the reasons why Trevelyan had to post a little sign with the word "knock" written in large capital letters on his door. If someone was going to enter his rooms he wanted to know about it, instead of finding some stranger sitting in his little sitting room that doubled as his counseling room once again.

Upon hearing a loud knock on the door, Trevelyan did not look up from the medical text he was reading right away. He told whoever was behind the door to come in. He heard the half-rusted hinges creak and squeal softy as the door opened and someone stepped into the room.

Trevelyan looked up finally to see his visitor. Much to his surprise and astonishment his visitor was not one of his regular patients but, from the looks of it, a fat gentleman. He had never received gentlemen in his rooms before due to his, what higher society would called, disgraceful and revolting position. Only the poor or lower working class people had ever dared to enter the dosshouse to visit him. No gentleman had ever darkened his door until now.

"Good heavens! Do you live here? In this?" asked the gentleman, looking around at the dirty sitting/counseling room

"Yes, I'm afraid I do," Trevelyan answered truthfully as it would not do him any good to lie about it. He was wearing a blanket over his ruining black suit, handmade fingerless gloves on his hands, his hair was in disarray, his face was powered with shoot and his figure frame was way too skinny to be considered healthy yet not quite sickly. Quite unlike this gentleman whose green-grey suit was perfectly well intact with a top hat on his head. His sandy color hair was combed and clean, as was his pudgy mustache face. He was healthy-looking despite his fat large stature.

What was the point in trying to hide something that was so obvious?

The gentleman was silent for a moment, studying him with a critical eye. "You are the same Percy Trevelyan who has had so distinguished a career? Recently won the Slater Award for Medicine?" the gentlemen asked

Trevelyan answered, without taking his eyes of the gentleman, as he closed his book. "I am."

The gentleman swung the door closed behind him, still studying him analytically "Then answer me frankly sir, you'll find it in your interest to do so," he said, tone seriously sharp "Despite your present financially situation, you clearly have all the cleverness that makes a successful man, but have you the tact?"

The question surprised Trevelyan to silence for a few seconds. This was the first time he had been praised for his cleverness since he ended up his financial situation. "I trust that I have my share sir," he answered

"Any bad habits?" the gentleman asked "Not drawn toward drink?"

"Not really sir," Trevelyan answered, offended by the notion. Just because he was poor did not mean he would fall victim to drink. He was a doctor and he would make a good example for health despite his position.

"Quite right, quite right," the gentleman said, becoming a bit lighter in his gaze and tone

The two men stared at each other for a moment before the gentleman moved towards Trevelyan and stand in front of him. "Well, I was bound to ask," the gentleman explained

"Why?"

"Why sir? Simple why, with all these qualities, are you not in practice?"

Trevelyan didn't answer

"Come now. It's the old story," the gentleman said, "More in the brains then in the pocket, aye?" The gentleman suddenly turned very business-like where he stood "Now sir, what would you say sir, if I were to start you in Brook Street?"

Trevelyan stared up at him in astonishment. Brook Street was known for its aristocratic clients due to its location near Grosvenor Square.

"If a specialist is to succeed he must aim high," the gentleman told the astonished doctor, "And a practice in Brook Street is just the beginning." He began to walked around Trevelyan to sit in the rickety wooden chair across from the doctor, "Capital will keep yourself in style: a highly respectable carriage and horse, a surgery that's worthy of you, waiting room, servants and the best equipment that money can buy. That is what you will have sir."

A long moment of silence fell between the two men as Trevelyan let all that the gentleman had offered him sink into his mind. Most men would be blindly jumping headfirst into a chance like this, but Trevelyan was not most men. He could not just blindly grasp something good without knowing how genuine it was. While he realized what an extraordinary chance he was being given, he could not figure out why such a man like this gentleman would offer such a chance to him. What made him so different from anyone else?

Rising from his chair, Trevelyan moved to sit in the chair behind the table that doubled as his desk, wanting to put something between him and the gentleman just in case.

"But why?" he asked

"It's just like any other investment," the gentleman explained, still in business-like form though stronger and tougher than earlier "Safer than most!"

So the gentleman saw it as a sort of business investment, not because Trevelyan was special, but because he had more use. "And what am I to do?" he asked

"I'll tell you!" the gentleman said almost snipingly at first but then toning more softly as he continued to speak, "I will take the house, furnish it, pay the maid, and run the whole place. All you have to do is to wear out the chair in consulting room." His tone became stronger again as he finished "Then you hand over to me three quarters everything you earn, and keep one quarter for yourself."

The gentleman stood. "Now what do you say to that son? Do you agree?"

So this gentleman would allow him to work as a doctor in a house that would technically be owned by the gentleman. He would only keep a fourth of what he earned since he did not own his establishment. Though this thought did put Trevelyan off, he couldn't argue with how good he got it since he did not have to worry over keeping house. He could just be a doctor.

So how could he not accept this proposal no matter how strange it was?

* * *

><p>"<em>This then, Ms. Holmes, was a strange proposal which Mr. Blessington approached me. I will not weary you on how we bargained and negotiated. But it ended with my moving into the house next quarter day and starting in practice on very much the same conditions as he had suggested."<em>

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><p>Dr. Trevelyan stepped out of the public carriage both he and the gentlemen, to which he now knew only as Mr. Blessington, had taken to reach their new residence. The doctor looked no longer as the man he was back at the dosshouse. He had a new suit, shoes, tie, as well as a new top hat and gloves. He now looked like the professional doctor people knew him to be and he finally felt like one.<p>

A sense of pride filled him when he saw the newly polished and shined gold-platted sign on the door of the house reading:

DR. P.W. TREVELYAN

CONSULTANT PHYSICIAN

The door was opened by the page, who gestured them in with a bow of his head and a smooth wave of his arm.

When they entered, they meet Nora, the maid, who greeted them with a slight bow and took their hats, Blessington's cane and Trevelyan's gloves. She left them as Blessington began to give Trevelyan a tour of their new residence.

Blessington showed Trevelyan both large and well-decorated waiting room and his new well-spaced and brightly lit consulting room. It was almost overwhelming for the young doctor. He finally had everything he needed and he nearly couldn't believe it. And yet it was all right there in front of him.

"Well, I can't believe it, Mr. Blessington," the young doctor told the gentleman "Nor can I thank you enough."

Blessington just held up his hand.

* * *

><p>"<em>He turned the two best rooms on the first floor into a sitting room and a bedroom for himself and came to live with me in the character of a resident patience. His heart was weak but not abnormal, and yet he demanded constant medical supervision. He was a man of singular habits, shunning company and very seldom going out. Expect in one respect. Every evening at the same time, he would go for a walk for half an hour exactly, no matter what the weather. And every evening, at the same hour, he would walk into the consulting room. He would then examine the books, put down five and three-pence for every guinea that I had earned, and carried the rest off to the strong-box in his own room. I may say with confidence, Ms. Holmes, that he never had occasion to regret his speculation. From the first it was a success. And during the last two years, I have made him a rich man. So much, Ms. Holmes, for my past history and my relations with the resident patient, Mr. Blessington. It only remains for me now to tell you what has occurred to bring me here tonight. Some weeks ago Mr. Blessington came down to me in...as it seemed to me, a considerable state of agitation."<em>

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><p>*I can't be certain for sure, but according to my grandfather, the study of obscure nervous lesions was actually the early studies of nervous system disorders, like Catalepsy and other neurological disorders. This would make Dr. Trevelyan a 19th century neurologist.<p>

*A dosshouse is the British English term for a flophouse (a place that offers very cheap lodging and provides only minimal services). I figured this is the type of cheap lodging the Granada Company used to film the scene of Dr. Trevelyan and Blessington's first meeting. It seemed to fit better than a common lodging house as there were no extras filling up the space.

Dr. Percy Trevelyan was portrayed by Nicholas Clay, who was known for his role as Lancelot in the 1981 film Excalibur. Clay also appeared as Stapleton in the 1983 The Hound of the Baskervilles. Clay died of liver cancer in 2000 at age 53.

Blessington was portrayed by Patrick Newell. Newell would later appear as Bentley Bobster in the Young Sherlock Holmes film, which aired in the three months after this episode aired. Regrettably Newell died three years later, in 1988, from a heart attack brought on by his weight problems. He was 56.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: The reason for this delay was not because of waiting for my laptop, but because of the weather. For those living in the U.S, know of the recent tornadoes in the Midwest. My town was lucky to avoid disastrous damages but not our closest neighbor, which was only a couple miles away. I admit I was really shaken up from the events and so I took some time to recover, as well help out. I began writing the chapter once I felt better enough and have been working on it between my volunteering.

My current poll results show a 5-way tie between A Scandal in Bohemia, The Red-Headed League, The Blue Carbuncle, The Greek Interpreter and Other? I've only recieved only 1 suggestion for "Other?" Joan Jett The Runaway had suggested "The Dying Detective." If I keep having ties, I'm going to have to flip a coin between the ties.

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><p><strong>The Resident Patient<strong>

_Weeks ago…_

Trevelyan looked up from his lab station in slight confusion. He could hear Mr. Blessington running down the stairs, calling his name with urgency in his voice. Wondering what was matter with his normally stoic if somewhat demanding resident patient, the young doctor rose and left his surgery, without bothering to undo his lab apron.

The young doctor entered his counseling room, to which his surgery was adjacent from, grabbing a towel outside the surgery room door to clean his hands. Blessington burst into the room, a newspaper in his hand, still calling the young doctor's name even though he was standing in front of him. Mr. Blessington's pudgy face was a near ghastly white and his eyes were haunted with unknown distress. He was shaking slightly from what may have been fear.

"Mr. Blessington! Calm yourself—" Trevelyan began

"Calm myself? CALM MYSELF?" Blessington interrupted, anger and panic mixed in with his usual strong voice, "But my dear sir, have you not heard of the burglary?"

Alarm now arose in the doctor. "Burglary? Where?"

He moved past Mr. Blessington, fearing for a few seconds that the house had been burglarized and no one had noticed until Mr. Blessington had seen something. That was initial thought until Mr. Blessington called him back.

"No, no, no! Not here, sir, not here!" Mr. Blessington pointed a shaking finger at him. "But it could have been!" He looked away, fear growing in his eyes and voice dropped so low Trevelyan had to strain his hearing to hear it.

"…It could have been…"

* * *

><p><em>Within a week, the whole house had become a fortress of bolts, bars and locks. When I questioned him upon the point, he became so offensive that I was compelled to drop the subject. At first, Ms. Holmes, I thought it merely to protect his strong box, but then…I suspected that it was his life he was protecting. From then on, he stopped going out altogether, peered continuingly out his window, and kept himself locked in his room in what I can only describe as a state of mortal dread.<em>

* * *

><p>After telling Sherlene how he once looked in on Mr. Blessington and finding a newspaper in his hand, Trevelyan paused in his reminiscence give himself a few minutes break. He had already told a lot of to Ms. Holmes, but there was still much left to be told. Much to his surprise, he saw that had failed to notice that a storm had rolled in until the thunder started to rumble. The storm bought darkness that plunged the sitting room into gloomy blackness, broken only by the light of the street lamps outside.<p>

It seemed his hosts had also failed to notice the storm and the sudden gloom, having been listening so intently to his recollections. Dr. Watson gave a slight start at a rather loud boom of thunder. After composing himself, he then immediately stood up from the settee and began to turn on the gas lamps and close the window curtains. Meanwhile, Sherlene took the break as a moment to think about what the young doctor had described to her, gently tapping the end of her pipe (which had long gone out by now) against the middle of her forehead.

It was only when Watson sat down again, this time sitting in his desk chair beside Sherlene, did the Woman Detective stop tapping and spoke up. "Dr. Trevelyan, before you continue, you say you found this man, Blessington, prostrated on his bed, clutching a newspaper?"

"More precisely, the remains of a newspaper…" Trevelyan told her, not really knowing why Sherlene wanted to know that. "…for he had torn it to shreds."

"Torn to shreds?" Sherlene repeated thoughtfully as Watson glanced at her. Sherlene slowly looked at her companion, seeing that he had shared and agreed with her thought.

Something in that newspaper must have frighten Blessington badly enough that, in his distressed state of mind, he tore it in hopes that it had never happened. But upon realizing that it had happened, despite his attempt to believe it hadn't, Blessington must have decided to take every precaution he had to keep it from happening again or with him.

That sort of reaction was too strong to have been made by the news of a simple and single burglary.

"Do you recall the contents of this newspaper at all?" Sherlene asked

"No, I'm afraid not," Trevelyan said, "Even if I had known what I was looking for."

"When was this?"

"Some weeks ago. The beginning of May, I think. Gradually as time pass, his fears seemed to die away and he renewed his former habits. And then suddenly, a fresh event reduced him to the prostration to which he now lies."

Trevelyan reached to unbutton his suit jacket in order to reach for the inner pocket. From the pocket, he pulled out a folded piece of paper and handed it to Sherlene as he continued to explain, "What happened was, yesterday, I received this letter…"

As Trevelyan spoke without pause, Sherlene took the letter, unfolded it and, when she noticed Watson looking over her shoulder, handed it to him. "…from a Russian nobleman now resident in England who suffers from catalepsy. In it, he announces his intention of visiting me for a consultation this very evening at quarter pass six."

Sherlene's eyebrows furrowed. That consultation would have had taken place only a little over half an hour* before she and Watson had returned from the barbershop.

"Because the chief difficulty in the study of catalepsy is the rareness of the disease," Trevelyan continued with his tale, "You may believe that at the appointed hour, I was eager to receive the patient."

* * *

><p><em>6:15PM Today<em>

Trevelyan entered the entry room, hiding his eager excitement at finally receiving a patient within his medical interests. During the last two years in practice, despite his earlier successes back at university, he had not received one patient with nervous lesions until today. It was an exciting in his mind to get back to working with his specialty at long last, but he had to keep up the air of professional calm and not act like a giddy schoolboy.

Fenton, the new page, was helping an old man, presumably his new patient, the Russian Count, out his wet coat. The Count was balding but what hair he had was white, almost like a powered wig. His stature indicated he was once of tall stature but age had made his shoulders hunched inward making him bow down slightly. Finally, he was using a cane to help him walk on his somewhat shaky thin legs.

Next to the man was a younger man, whom Trevelyan presumed was his patient's son. He was almost as tall as his father's current stature, still an inch or two shorter. His dark almost black hair was slicked back. Underneath his long pointed nose was a bushy somewhat long mustache. A thick goatee graced his strong chin.

"Good evening gentleman, I'm Doctor Trevelyan," Trevelyan greeted the two men, expertly clamming down his excitement and allowing his professional doctor's pleasantness to show through. He reached for Count's hand and gently but firmly shaking it. "And it was you sure, I assume, wrote to me?"

It wasn't the Count that answered but his son. "My father very little English, doctor, so I trust you'll excuse my coming in with him, as his health is a matter of the most overwhelming importance?" he said with a heavy Russian accent

"Yes, I respect that sir," said Trevelyan before motioning Fenton to take the Count to the counseling room while he continue talked to the son "Perhaps sir, you would like to join us for the consultation?"

The son shook his head. "Nyet, nyet, not for the world," he said as his father was led by Fenton out of the room, "It is more painful to me then I can explain. If I were to see my father in one of those dreadful seizures, I am convinced I would never survive it. My own nervous system is an exceptionally sensitive one. With your permission, I will remain in your waiting room while you go into my father's case."

"Yes, of course," Trevelyan reassured.

He could understand the Count's son feelings towards his father's condition. It was not unheard of that catalepsy fits had the tendency to scare people. For some people, it can be unbearably unnerving to be talking or being around someone who would suddenly freeze as still as a statue for a period of time.

"Ah, thank you doctor," the son said with relief in his voice.

Trevelyan opened the door to the waiting room for the son and left to go to the counseling room when the son had settled himself down in one of the waiting room's many chairs, picking up a random magazine to read while he waited.

Upon entering the counseling room, the young doctor thanked Fenton, who had helped the Count sit down in front of the desk. The page left quickly as Trevelyan moved to stand behind the desk.

"Now sir," he started, hoping that the Count would understand what he was saying. "I hope you will forgive me, but I must ask you a few basic questions." He opened his notebook and sat down, reaching for a pen.

"Frist, can you tell me your age?"

No pauses or looks of confusion on the old Count's face confirmed that he understood the question.

"Sixty-Seven," the Count said, his own voice heavy with a Russian accent like his son.

"And apart from catalepsy…would you say you're physically sound?"

Trevelyan saw the Count's eyes become vacant and his expression turn blank. The young doctor quickly recognized that the old Russian had not identified with the question.

Trying to modify his question, Trevelyan placed his fingers on his forehead, then his stomach. "No headaches? Abdominal pain?"

But all he received from the Count was more blank stares.

"Any pain at all?" Trevelyan asked instead, hoping for an answer.

For a few minutes, the Count's face was twisted in thought, clearly thinking about what he had heard and trying to figure out what it meant. And then understanding finally seemed to appear in the Count's eyes and face and he answered. "No."

"Good," Trevelyan said, hiding a sigh of relief in his breath as he wrote down the note on his pad.

For a moment, he had been worried that he would have to insistently ask the Count's son to come into the consulting room and act as a translator for his father. The young doctor was much unused to dealing with foreign speakers without someone translating for him. But he had to take account that the Count's son had told how badly his father's seizures upset him, and as a doctor, he had to keep unnecessary distress down to a minimum for everyone, not just his patients. Besides, the Count himself may be just as well as unused to speaking without the help of his son just as much…maybe even more so.

"Naturally, I shall exam you thoroughly, but this is merely a preliminary," Trevelyan told the Count. Although he had a formidable feeling that the Count had not understood a word he just said. The young doctor decided to move on to his next question without fretting too much on if the old Count had understood his last sentence.

"Do you smoke cigars?"

"Yes," the Count answered, although probably because he recognized the word 'cigars' from the way his eyes lit up in recognition of the word.

"Do you drink alcohol?"

Another pause.

"Vodka?" the Count answered though in a questioning manner. He quite possibly didn't know for sure if he had understood the question.

"Vodka, I see," Trevelyan said back, his tone reassuring the Count that he had understood the question. The young doctor looked down at his notepad to write the note as he asked, "Every day?"

The Count did not answer.

Trevelyan looked up, thinking he would see another confused look or maybe a contemplating one. But instead the young doctor saw a near wide-eyed frozen rigid face. The Count's jaw and shoulders were held tightly and the poor man could not seem to be able to blink.

"My god!" Trevelyan whispered in surprised shock as realization filled his mind like a gaslight just turning on, "I didn't expect…"

The Count's catalepsy had just taken affect right in front of him and he did not even notice it until he looked up. It was no wonder now that the son did not want to be in the same room when his father went into one of the fits. These attacks happened without any warning at any time of the day.

Quickly, he got up and began examining his frozen patient, who was probably distressed in his mind though his body could not tell the tale.

* * *

><p>"<em>My first feeling was one of pity and horror. My second, I fear, was rather one of professional satisfaction. There was nothing markedly abnormal about his condition, which had harmonized with my former experiences. I have obtained good results in such cases by in the inhalation of nitrite of Amyl.* And the present, seemed an abnormal opportunity of testing its virtue." <em>

* * *

><p>His patient could indeed not blink when he waved his hand in front of the face. The pulse in the neck and wrist was strong if a bit fast. Trevelyan moved behind his patient in order to check the stiffness of the neck and shoulders. As he ran his fingers and hands over the parts, he found they were uncomfortably stiff, as if logs had been placed under the skin instead of bone and muscle.<p>

"Now sir, I believe you can hear me," Trevelyan said, stepping back into his literally frozen patient's view, "I shall be back directly. Rest assured."

Inside his surgery, the young doctor quickly unlocked his medicine cabinet and grabbed the bottle of Amyl. As quickly and as steadily as he could, he poured a bit of the amyl into a shot glass, then again in one of his test tubes. Placing a white hand towel around the tube to keep a better grip of it, Trevelyan carefully but hastily returned to the adjacent counseling room.

But the moment the young doctor opened the room, he half-froze in surprise. The chair where the Count had been sitting in was now vacant. Confused, Trevelyan briskly walked to the waiting room, thinking the Count's fit had subsided while he was in the surgery and the old man had left to seek the company of his son. But the waiting room was also empty. The magazine the son had been reading was carelessly left on the floor.

Befuddled, Trevelyan returned to the counseling room, calling for Fenton, who appeared almost out of nowhere from further within the house and fallowed the young doctor into the counseling room. As Trevelyan sat back in his desk chair, the page closed the door then hurried to stand at attention by the chair that the Count had sat only a few minutes ago.

The young doctor tapped his fingers against one of his medical texts in confused thought for a few moments before looking at the page to ask, "Fenton, the two gentlemen you showed in less than fifteen minutes ago, did you see them leave?"

"Leave?" the page asked, surprised "No sir."

"Are you sure?"

"I'm positive sir."

Both the young doctor and the page looked up and toward the counseling room's door when they heard the front door open. Thinking that the patient and his son had returned, Trevelyan stood up. Maybe the Count had gotten upset when he had his seizure in front of a doctor and had tried to leave with the son following after him to bring him back to the practice.

The door opened, but instead of the Count and his son, it was Blessington who entered, just returned from his evening walk, to which he had recently returned to doing. "Good evening Doctor Trevelyan," he greeted pleasantly.

"Good evening Mr. Blessington," Trevelyan greeted back equally pleasant, "And how was your walk today?"

"A little rain, but very amiable," Blessington answered, "Very amiable."

With that, Mr. Blessington left closing the door behind him, allowing Trevelyan to continue questioning the page. "Did you hear them leave?"

"No sir," the page answered "I was nowhere near the hall."

"You should have been!" Trevelyan berated, "That is your duty! Now, I know that you're new here but you should know by now."

Suddenly, the doctor and the page heard an urgent cry from the stairs. "Doctor! Doctor! Doctor!"

Trevelyan quickly went to the stairs and looked up to the upper floor where he saw Blessington leaning on the railing. "Someone has been in my room!" Blessington shouted down to the doctor

"No one has been in your room sir," Trevelyan tried to reassure

"You lie!" Blessington accused, anger burning in his eyes "You're lying to me!"

"I assure you I am not!" Trevelyan yelled, though trying to keep himself composed at the accession. "Fenton!"

The page appeared from the counseling room.

"Have you been in Mr. Blessington's room?"

"No sir," Fenton answered meekly "I haven't."

Trevelyan looked back up to Mr. Blessington. "There you see."

"Then come up and see for yourself!" Blessington snarled before turning back and stomping into his room.

When Trevelyan entered Mr. Blessington's bedroom, Blessington was standing in front of his full body mirror, waiting impatiently. He turned to the young doctor, a frown deeply etched on his face.

"Now sir—"

"Look at those!" Blessington shouted angrily, cutting off Trevelyan.

The fat man grabbed Trevelyan by the arm and pulled him roughly to a spot on the carpet where two clear wet shoeprints could be seen. "Are you telling me that they are mine?" Blessington said his voice low in anger

He placed a foot on the shoeprint to show the difference. As far as Trevelyan could tell the prints were indeed different from Blessington's. But if it wasn't himself, Blessington, the page or the maid then who came up into this room? And how did they get passed the locked door to which Blessington had the key?

"Well, at first glance, they appear to be too large for you," Trevelyan said

"Of course, they are not mine!" Blessington growled "I always remove my galoshes at the front door!"

"Has anything been stolen?"

"No! But that is not the point!"

"Nothing has been stolen?"

"My privacy has been invaded by a stranger! Is that not enough?"

The two men stared at each other for a moment, one confused, the other angry.

Then Blessington turned away with a huff and sat on his bed. But as Trevelyan watched him, Blessington's anger seemed to just fade away. Within a few moments, the angry man had become upset in a different aspect.

Trevelyan took a step forward, hearing Blessington give a sniff and then starting to cry but not in sadness but in fear. The old fear that occurred from that burglary a few weeks ago had rose up again, but this time Blessington could not hold himself together to pretend he wasn't upset.

"Mr. Blessington?" Trevelyan said gently

Blessington did not answer.

"Mr. Blessington?" Trevelyan said again

"Leave me now," Blessington said his voice void of anger and tight with dismay and fear. "Go away. Leave me alone."

"Surly there is something I can do to help," Trevelyan insisted "Shall I call the police?"

"No. No, not those bunglers. There's only one person who can help me now."

* * *

><p>"And that is why I am here," Trevelyan finished with his tale, "But I must apologize for such a trivial reason…a thief that doesn't steal…"<p>

_A thief that doesn't steal is hardly a trivial reason good doctor, in fact it is a serious one,_ Sherlene thought. _If someone breaks into a bedroom with valuables and doesn't steal anything then they weren't in there for the valuables...no, they were in there for the _resident _of that bedroom... _

"Did he ask for me by name?" the woman asked, keeping her thoughts to herself

"Oh yes," the doctor answered

Sherlene gave a slight smile. "Then let us be on our way."

The woman detective shot right up out of her chair and half-walked half-scurried towards the door in plain eagerness. The two doctors look at each other for a moment in surprise at Sherlene's zealousness before moving to follow after her.

* * *

><p>*Otherwise known as Amyl nitrite, generally used today to treat heart disease. As an inhalant, it can force stiff muscles to relax. It has been in use since 1859.<p>

*According to Google Maps, Brook Street is only 10 minutes away from 221b Baker Street by car, and 22 minutes by foot. But considering this story takes place in the late 19th century, I decided to add another 20 minutes to the car time.


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: I now have **2 votes** for both A Scandal in Bohemia and The Red-Headed League, The Blue Carbuncle, Other? and The Greek Interpreter tie at **1 vote**, and Shoscombe Old Place has **0 votes. Get your votes in **as this story is **2 chapters away **from completion. The **winner of the poll** will be shown at the **end** of the last chapter. Remember, any ties will be dicided on the flip of a coin.

**ALSO, **this is the chapter you must **view with discretion. **

* * *

><p><strong>The Resident Patient<strong>

Sherlene shook her dripping wet gentlemen's umbrella, flinging water droplets onto the floor carpet of the entryway of Trevelyan's medical practice/home. The storm had brought a heavy downpour of rain that had not let up a bit during the short drive to Brook Street, though the thunder and lightning seemed to have died down for the moment. She, Watson and Trevelyan had been lucky to have escaped with only wet shoes, the bottom of their trouser legs and the end of Sherlene's skirt.

Deciding her umbrella could be as dry as it could get, she closed it and handed it to Fenton, thanking him politely as she did so. She took off her hat, placed her gloves inside it and gave it to the page as well. She continued on further into the house with Watson and Trevelyan following, almost overwhelming Fenton as he tried to hang onto the hats and another umbrella that were suddenly dumped into his hands.

Sherlene, Watson and Trevelyan had all just started up the stairs to reach the next floor when the only light in room suddenly went out, causing them all to pause for a second. But just as they registered the sudden darkness, a voice shouted threateningly from above.

"Stay where you are! I have a pistol!"

The shouted threat had surprised Sherlene enough that she took a step backwards, disrupting her balance on the staircase. On an instinct born from natural protectiveness, Watson grabbed her elbow to both steady her and to get ready to pull her behind him if any bullets started flying through the air.

The voice continued speaking as the two men and the lady looked up towards the railing above them, but could not see the owner of the voice, who was no doubt Mr. Blessington. "And I give you my world I will shoot if you come any nearer!"

Trevelyan's face twisted angrily. "Mr. Blessington! This outrageous, sir! Do you not recognize me?" he shouted furiously, causing both Sherlene and Watson to look at him in amazement. The doctor may have looked like a quiet, somber professional doctor but he had bite when he needed it.

Despite the situation, Sherlene gave a little smile before looking back up at the railings, smile fading away just as quickly as it appeared.

A low rumble of thunder could be heard in the distance as a figure stepped into view of the rails. From the light of a window, Sherlene and Watson saw a pale-faced and sweaty Blessington cautiously walking into view. There was a pistol in his hand, held steadily in front from him, even though his whole body shivered in his fright of an unknown fear. "Is that you, Doctor?" he asked, his voice half-whispering causing him to sound throaty.

"Yes, of course, it is me!" Trevelyan answered, his bite toned down some notches but still apparent

"The other two? Are they what they pretend to be?" Blessington asked his suspicion apparent

"They are Ms. Sherlene Holmes and her friend Dr. Watson," Trevelyan replied, "Good God, Mr. Blessington! It was you who asked me to fetch them!"

Blessington paused, his face twitching. But some color in his face started to come back as he took in the young doctor's words, though not very much. "Yes," he said taking a breath in, "Yes, yes. Forgive me. Forgive me."

He reached over and turned the light back on.

With the light back, Sherlene patted Watson's hand to get him to let go before crouching down on the stair landing, measuring the two footprints she found there with the tape measure that she fished out of her skirt pocket. When she finished, she looked back up towards Blessington. The light had made it apparent on how unnerved he really was. His paleness was of a sickly shade, his eyes were that of a haunted animal and his thin hair had grown gray in his fright. He had also still not lowered the pistol.

"Gentlemen, Lady, do come up," Blessington invited with courtesy

Sherlene slipped the measurer back into her pocket as she stood up and continued up the stairs, the two doctors following after her. As she drew nearer, Blessington finally lowered the pistol, seeing she was indeed not the threat that he had been dreading. By the time she stood in front of the disturbed man that was her real client, he had thrust it out of sight into his coat pocket.

"I…I'm sorry if my precautions have annoyed you," Blessington apologized, but it was pointed more towards Sherlene then to Watson and Trevelyan, "Good evening, Ms. Holmes. I'm sure I'm very much obliged to your coming around. No one has ever needed your advice more then I, no one. I…expect Dr. Trevelyan has told you of this unwarranted intrusion into my rooms?"

"Quite so, Mr. Blessington," Sherlene replied, "Who are these two men?"

Blessington gave Sherlene an annoyed glare. "Which two men? I don't know them."

"Then why do they wish to molest you?"

"Molest me?" Blessington said, incredulous at the question "You can hardly expect me to answer that."

"You mean that you don't know?" Sherlene asked, though if anyone where paying close enough attention they would see the distrust in her dark gray-colored eyes.

Blessington did not answer the question. Instead, he gesticulated towards the door to his rooms. "Come in here please," he said, though in the undercurrent of his voice it would sound more like a demand

Sherlene opened her mouth to ask why, but Blessington cut her off, any gentlemanly courtesy gone from his voice "Just have the kindness to step in here!"

Sherlene motioned with her eyes and head to have Blessington lead the way.

* * *

><p>Blessington led Sherlene and the two doctors through his sitting room and into his bedroom. The bedroom was rather nice with its walls covered in wallpaper with designs of warm grey leaves.<p>

The dominate piece of furniture in the room was the bed as it was so large that Sherlene was sure two people could sleep on it comfortably but still have enough room for a third. It looked bigger with its heavy duvet. At the foot of the bed was a white velvet strong box with green and tan decorative design figures on it. A black iron fireplace with a candleholder, a picture and some knickknacks on its mental stood episode of the bed and strongbox, flanked by a polished dark wood chest of drawers on the side. A wardrobe stood on the left side of the bed along with a standing full-body mirror. A chair sat in a corner of the room in front of the chest of drawers and Sherlene spotted another chair, a whicker one, in the room as well.

Blessington moved to the strong box and used the key he had hanging on a thin gold chain to open it. He lifted the lid, showing the cash-boxes he had stored there during the past two years he had lived as Trevelyan's resident patient. Sherlene leaned over to get a better look. This was no doubt the only money Blessington had ever had, even if it was rightfully earned by Trevelyan.

"I've never been a rich man, Ms. Holmes," Blessington told Sherlene gaining her attention for a moment, before she looked back at the cash-boxes "I've never made one investment in my life. Dr. Trevelyan will tell you that. But I don't believe in bankers, madam. Never trust a banker, Ms. Holmes! Never! Between ourselves, what little I have is here in this strong box." Blessington's voice started to rise. "So you can understand what it means to me when unknown people force themselves into my rooms!"

Sherlene straightened up and turned to Blessington with displeasure edged into her eyes, though her voice was calm and cool. "Mr. Blessington, I cannot possible advise you when you try to deceive me."

"Deceive you?" Blessington asked confusion fitting his face "But I've told you everything."

Sherlene gave her head a slight shake and headed towards the door. "Good night Dr. Trevelyan," the woman detective said politely to the young doctor, who stood confused.

"Ms. Holmes!" Blessington yelled

Sherlene looked back.

"No advice for me?" Blessington asked

"My advice to you is to speak the truth."

With that said, Sherlene left the bedroom, briskly walking through Blessington's sitting room and down the stairs with Watson calling bafflingly after her as he followed. Though very confused, Trevelyan left the room, leaving Blessington, who had grown even paler then he was ever before.

Once she gathered her hat, gloves and umbrella, Sherlene stepped outside, closed the door and stood on the only dry patch on the stone steps as she called for a cab. A second later, the door opened again, revealing Watson. Once he closed the door and stood rather close to his companion in the dry patch, he turned to her to speak.

"Holmes—"

Sherlene interrupted his upcoming reprimand before it could begin. "I can read in a man's eye when it is his own skin that is frightful!"

"Yes, but why did you call him a liar?"

"Because I am certain that he does know who these men are. Cab!"

Sherlene ran into the street to catch the nearest cab, opening her umbrella as she stepped back into the rain. Watson hurried to follow after her, opening his umbrella as well.

* * *

><p>"The young Russian penetrated into Blessington's room," Sherlene explained to Watson as they walked in the small hallway just outside their sitting room and Sherlene's bedroom. "…while his confederate kept the doctor from interfering."<p>

"And, of course, catalepsy is a very easy complaint to imitate," Watson stated as he and Sherlene placed their hats and damp umbrellas on the hat stand.

"Yes, I know, I've done it myself," Sherlene said with displeasure at the memory. While catalepsy may be easy to intimidate, it was very annoying to keep oneself from blinking from long periods of time. She hoped she would never have to fake a catalepsy fit again to avoid getting beaten into a bloody pulp.

They both turned to head towards their bedrooms, but a sudden idea popped into Watson's mind.

"Holmes?"

Sherlene turned and walked back to Watson. "Yes?"

Watson leaned his elbow against the stair railing leading up to the second floor. "Might there be one alternative?" he asked, as Sherlene leaned on her own elbow against the railing "Grotesquely improbable no doubt, but still just conceivable. Might the whole story of the cataleptic Russian be a concoction of Dr. Trevelyan's, who for his own purposes has been in Blessington's room?"

"But did you see the footprints on the stair carpet?" Sherlene asked, "They were squared toed. Quite unlike Blessington's, which are round, and an inch and a third longer then Dr. Trevelyan's. I think we can sleep on this, Watson."

Sherlene looked away.

"But…" she started to say as a rumble of thunder sounded through the night. "I should be surprised if we do not hear from Brook Street in the morning."

She moved towards her bedroom door. "Good night."

"Good night, old girl," Watson answered back, wondering what it was that made Sherlene think that as he walked up the stairs to his room.

* * *

><p><strong>(Here it comes, skip the whole last part if you want to)<strong>

It was almost seven in the morning and at this time of day Nora would bring the breakfast tea to her employers. As always, she played the tray down on a piece of surface next to the doctor's counseling room, to which he had been in for the past half-hour to get ready for the day ahead. She knocked gently against the door and called, "Good morning, Doctor! Your tea's here!"

"Thank you, Nora!" came the doctor's voice from the other side

Nora gave a smile. The doctor had more courteousness then Mr. Blessington. Though not a bad employer, Mr. Blessington had the tendency of being very rude. She grabbed the smaller tray that held the teapot and lift it off the larger tray underneath. The doctor could run on one cup of tea before the breakfast meal, but Mr. Blessington demanded the whole pot.

Nora walked up the stairs and into Mr. Blessington's sitting room. She placed the tray on the round table and knocked on the door. "Mr. Blessington! Your breakfast tea!" she called, then knocked on the door.

Much to her surprise, the door moved under her knuckle. That was unusual because Mr. Blessington never left his door open in the morning, especially after that scare with the burglaries.

"Mr. Blessington?" Nora asked

Nora pushed the door a bit and entered the room, thinking she would see Mr. Blessington asleep in his bed.

But instead she saw a horrific site that would forever haunt her in her memory.

Hanging limp from a rope attached to the ceiling, like a lifeless doll, was Mr. Blessington!

Nora did the only thing she could think of.

She screamed.


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: There are two reasons it's taken longer then usual to update.

1) I got a new job for the summer

2) I wanted to give people more time to vote on the poll. (Though it didn't do much *sigh*)

Offically, A Scandal in Bohemia is in the lead with **3 votes** with The Red-Headed League and The Greek Interpreter following up **2 votes **but one viewer, who cannot vote on the polls had told me that he/she voted for The Greek Interpreter so The Greek Interpreter is **tied** with A Scandal in Bohemia.

Now that that's taken care of, ONTO THE STORY!

* * *

><p><strong>The Resident Patient<strong>

Watson awoke groggily to a gentle pat on his shoulder. He only became fully awake when he heard his name being said in a serious manner of voice that could only belong to Sherlene Holmes. He half rolled onto his side and turned his head to look up and over his shoulder, seeing Sherlene leaning over him, frowning with troubled expectation.

"Get dressed quickly," the Woman Detective told him with no room for argument, "There's a cab waiting for us."

"Why?" Watson asked, sitting up slightly "What's the matter?"

The frown deepened slightly before she answered, "The Brook Street business."

"Any fresh news?"

Instead of answering, Sherlene pulled out a folded piece of paper that was held against her body by her skirt. She handed it to the doctor and once Watson took it out of her hand, she left the room, closing the door behind her so Watson could dress in peace.

As Watson unfolded the paper, he noticed that it was actually a ripped piece of yesterday's Times newspaper. But written in black ink on it, in a hurried almost messy handwriting, was one large but simple sentence and a signature.

**_For God's sake, come at once!_**

**_P. Trevelyan _**

* * *

><p>With it both being early morning and last night's storm finally gone, the ride to 403 Brook Street was much quicker than it had been last time. But the cab had barely just stopped in front of the practice when Dr. Trevelyan, pale-faced with dreadfulness, came rushing up to it before Sherlene could even step out onto the street.<p>

"Ms. Holmes!" Trevelyan said with a mixture of relief and distress. He was glad that she had finally arrived, but still troubled from the horror that had happened inside the building that was both his home and his practice. "I'm so glad you could come!"

"What has happened?" Sherlene demanded, as always, quick to go down into business

"Mr. Blessington has committed suicide," Trevelyan informed her with dread

"Suicide?" Watson said with surprise and horror

"Yes! He hanged himself during the night."

Sherlene gave a low whistle of astonishment before hurrying to step out of the cab, Watson following just as quickly behind her. Trevelyan, though he dreaded going back in, followed up the rear. The officer at the door, when he recognized who the woman coming toward him was, opened the door and stepped aside, allowing the three of them entry into the house.

"Has the body been touched?" Sherlene asked as she and Watson placed their canes on a table and removed their hats and gloves.

"No," Trevelyan answered.

Sherlene looked around the room in confusion for a second. "Where's the page?"

"Nowhere to be found."

_Interesting,_ Sherlene thought as she headed into the hall, going up the stairs, passing the bawling maid, who was without doubt the first person on the scene, and another officer who was dutifully and patiently questioning her.

* * *

><p>Sherlene entered the bedroom first and turned slightly green in the face when she saw the disconcerting sight.<p>

No matter how many times she saw this, she could not stop herself. This kind of thing is something no one in their right mind could really fully get used to. Thankfully for her pride, she was long past the point of breaking down or getting sick in front of people and/or in a crime scene. Swallowing slightly to help keep her stomach down, the woman looked away and stepped towards Inspector Lanner,* who was already finishing up his inspection of this new dead _Felo de se_* and was now figuring out his motive to committing his crime.

Sherlene quietly snorted with disgust at the thought of suicide being a crime. Personally, she did not see suicide as the criminal act as the law made it to be. These poor souls could no longer handle the hardships and horrors life threw at them. It was simply depression made from desperation. They wanted to free themselves from the agony of their inner pain that forced them to conclude that the only way to stop hurting was to die. No human, and not even the wild animals, liked being in pain for long periods. It was only natural for them to find any means necessary to feel free from it.

"Good morning Inspector," Sherlene said, shaking his hand, voice void of any pleasantness and filled with seriousness.

"Ms. Holmes, delighted to see you," Lanner greeted his tone of voice just as serious, "Please take a look. We were just about to take him down."

Sherlene moved closer to the body to study it. All the while, she fought her inner distress and kept up the cold and serious mask that people often associated with her.

Noticing the strong box that Blessington had showed her and Watson last night had been moved, she used her foot to push it back to its original place at the foot of the bed. The lid of the box nudged Blessington's limp and dangling feet, causing the body to swing slightly. The rope creaked loudly, signaling how taut it was.

It was clear that Blessington used the strong box as a footstool to reach the unused chandelier hook on the ceiling just over the foot of the bed. The end of the rope was tied to the bars on the window nearest the bed. The strength of the metal bars and the thick hook was enough to support Blessington's heavy dead weight.

"Right…Inspector," Sherlene signaled, having seen enough

"Stretcher!" Lanner called.

Two constables entered, passing Watson and Trevelyan who had not moved far from the door, giving everyone plenty of room to work. A long wooden stretcher, wide enough to hold Blessington's large size was carried in-between the two officers. They placed the stretcher on the strong box and one officer moved to the bared window, readying to untie the end of the rope when someone signaled him to do so.

The Woman Detective took a deep breath in and, slightly reluctantly, ducked under one of Blessington's limp arms and wrapped her own arms around the dead man's thighs and backside, supporting the body. As the officer slowly untied the rope, the dead weight dropped down onto Sherlene's shoulders.

Watson, Trevelyan, the constable that was in the room with Lanner, and the second constable that came with the stretcher, moved to help Sherlene, worried that the dead weight of a man much plumper then herself would be too much for her to handle alone. One constable supported the other side, while the other grabbed the legs, Trevelyan wrapped an arm around the shoulders and Watson took the back to steady the body.

Together, the five of them slowly and gently laid the body onto the stretcher. They all did their best to ignore how cold the body was to the touch and tried not to look too long at the blue face as Trevelyan loosened the noose from the neck when he was able reach it. When the body was laid down, one constable was quick to snatch a sheet off the bed. The doctors quickly covered most of the body, leaving the head and shoulders expose for them to give a quick examination, as Sherlene pulled the noose away from the bruised neck.

"That will be all," Lanner told the constables, allowing them to leave.

All three of them were pale and starting to look seriously ill.

"Have you heard of the events leading up to this affair?" Sherlene asked Lanner as the three officers quickly left the room to take care of their sudden illness as fast as they could without running.

"Yes," Lanner answered, as Sherlene stepped away from the body to stand next to him "Dr. Trevelyan has told me something of them."

"Have you formed an opinion?"

"Well, as far as I can see, the man was driven out of his senses by fright. The bed has been well slept in. There was an impression deep enough for all to see. It is about five in the morning, you know, that suicides are most common that would be about the time he hanged himself.

_By why?_ Sherlene wondered. _That's the missing piece of this puzzle. We have no idea why Blessington was so frightened to the point of wanting to kill himself to escape it. _

Blessington could have saved himself from this fate if he had just told her the truth last night. She had hoped that she would have gotten the answers she sought from Blessington himself today. She thought Blessington would come to his senses reluctantly, send for her again and tell her the truth. That was her original plan.

She could now see that she had made a serious error. She had not taken any thought that her rejection to his call for help would drive him over the edge. But it did not change the fact that Blessington had lied to her.

How could she help anyone when no one would tell her what the danger was?

What sort of danger was Blessington in? Who—she knew it had be a person—would pose a threat to a solitary man? And what part did the Russian Count and his son have in this?

Another question ran in her mind, probably the most important one of all.

Where was the page boy?

"Seems to be a very deliberate affair," Lanner said, his voice bringing Sherlene out of her pondering.

"From the rigidly of the limbs…" Watson reported as he and Trevelyan finally covered the rest of the body with the sheet, "…I'd say he has been dead for three hours."

"Thank you, Watson," Sherlene thanked as the two doctors settled themselves down into different chairs. Watson sat in the wicker chair that was now to the side of the bed, while Trevelyan sat in the chair close to the fireplace.

"Noticed anything peculiar about the room?" Sherlene asked the Inspector

Lanner pointed the fireplace. "There was a screwdriver on the mantelpiece." He reached deep into his pocket and pulled out a small packet. "And he seems to have smoked heavily during the night. I found these in the fireplace."

Sherlene took the packet from Lanner, opened it and let whatever was inside gently slide into her hand.

From where Watson was sitting, he could barely see what it was his companion was holding. But if he had to guess, he would say that they were the charred ends of dark-colored cigarettes.

"Have you his cigar holder?" Sherlene asked Lanner, not looking up from examining the items in her hand. Her self-trained eyes told her that they were very thin cigars, not cigarettes, of the same brand.

Lanner thought for a second, "No. I haven't seen one."

Sherlene glanced up at Lanner in what could have been confused surprise, before looking back the cigars. "His cigar case then?"

"Yes," Lanner reached into his other pocket and pulled out a silver cigar case that was almost as long as Sherlene's hand. "It was in his coat pocket."

Sherlene fisted the cigars and took the cigar case from the inspector. Holding it steady with her free hand and two fingers and the thumb of her fisted hand, she opened the case and used her three free fingers of her fisted handed to pick up the single cigar she found there. She brought it close to her nose and took in a deep inhalation, smelling it.

The cigar was noticeably thicker than the ones Sherlene had in her hand.

"This is an Havana," the woman detective reported, placing the single cigar back into the case and closing it. She opened her closed hand to look back at the thinner cigars she held in her palm. "And these others are cigars of the peculiar sort which are imported by the Dutch from their East Indian colonies. They are usually wrapped in straw, you know, and are thinner for their length than any other brand." She gave Lanner a look. "I don't suppose you've read my monograph on cigars and cigar ash?"

"Well, I…um, uh…"

"No, of course, not, thank you," Sherlene answered, handing the case back.

She squint her eyes to better examine the cigars, having accidently left her lens back at Baker Street. Despite what people thought, even she could have a little slip of the brain from time to time.

She was human after all.

"These have been smoked from a holder…" Sherlene began explaining her observations, surprising Watson once again into wondering how she picked up on these things, "And these without. These have been cut by a not very sharp knife. And these have had the ends bitten off by…"

She stopped, her eyes widening in realization.

"…a set of very excellent teeth…" she finished.

Gray eyes began sweeping the room, shadily. As the three men began to wonder what was wrong with the Woman Detective, she spoke up again, her voice in its upmost serious of tones; the kind that left no implication that she was joking.

"There were three men here last night."

Her realization startled the three men speechless for a couple of seconds. Lanner was the first to recover from the shock. "Good heavens!" he gasped.

He then frowned. Although he himself could no longer doubt Sherlene's word (past years have proven to him how often right she was), he could not figure out how she reached the conclusion with so little evidence, if any at all.

However, he pushed the feeling away and asked a different sort of question, "But nothing was stolen so what were they doing here?"

Sherlene placed the cigars down and began to loosen her skirt as she answered, "That is what we have to find out."

"How did they get in?" the Inspector asked, watching as Sherlene's trouser-cladded legs appeared into view

"The same way we did," the woman detective answered, stepping out of her skirt, "Through the front door."

"But the door was barred in the morning!" Lanner pointed out

"Then it was barred after they left," Sherlene countered, straightening up, the skirt hanging in her hand.

"But how do you know that?"

She threw the skirt on the bed as she answered, "I saw their traces. If you would just give me a few moments, Inspector, I may just be able to give you some further information."

The three men watched Sherlene move towards the door, which the constables politely closed when they left. She reopened it and checked the keyhole on the sitting room's side of the door, kneeling down and leaning close to it.

The most recent of scratches on the keyhole were too thin and smooth to have come from a simple key. She had seen the set of keys hanging on a chain attached to Blessington when she and Watson visited last night. Not one of those keys could have made these scratches for they were all too big and blunt to have made them.

Still kneeling on the floor, Sherlene turned away to look towards Watson, but noticed something caught on the hard woven fiber on the chair's back, almost at Watson's neck level. Sherlene shuffled the short distance over to her friend, telling him not to move. She did not want the thing she saw to accidently get caught on her friend without him knowing.

Watson did not move for the most part, but he did shift himself to look better at the back of the chair he was sitting in. He watched Sherlene move her hand carefully over the wicker. She stopped and plucked something small, white and a bit puffy out of the threaded band of wickers.

A bit of white hair?

Sherlene reached into her jacket and fished out a small rectangle shaped piece of scrap paper from the inner pocket. She placed the bit of hair on the paper, and was about to move to put it down somewhere, but Watson held up his hand in offering. Giving the doctor a fleeting but grateful look, the woman carefully lowered the paper with the hair balancing on it onto Watson's palm. Kneeling still, Sherlene moved her body around the back of the chair and leaned closer to the floor. Spotting something, she grabbed it, moved back to the front of the hair and disposed it onto the scrap paper in her companion's hand.

Another end of the Dutch cigars?

Sherlene rose and moved to the fireplace. She paused, looking around down at the carpet and moved backwards towards the chest of drawers, taking large steps to avoid accidently stepping on anything that might be there.

Now in front of the chest of drawers, Sherlene ran a hand over the top of the back of the chair that stood there. This chair was facing the bed, not the window like it was when she was here last night…much like the wicker chair.

Sherlene looked again towards the drawers and this time, something caught her eye.

When Lanner saw Sherlene lean close to the drawers, he leaned too from where he was standing nearby, trying to see what she had seen. He watched her pull out another piece of scrap paper and observed her gently using her pinky to push some flaky gray ash that was almost hidden by the drawers themselves onto it. When she was finished, she handed the ash filled paper to him and he took it with both hands, being careful to keep it away from his nose.

Sherlene looked back to the carpet to give it one more quick look. But something on the edge of the carpet caught her eye and she quickly snatched it up.

Yet another end of the Dutch cigars?

She placed the second end onto the scrap paper with the ash in Lanner's hands and moved towards the bed, still carefully observing the floor.

She stopped in front of the side drawer next to the bed, seeing what appeared to be stains on the carpet. But Sherlene's eyes could see that the stains were from mud and had the clear prints of the soles of shoes. The small mud trail she had seen throughout the room proved that someone came in with muddy shoes. She took out a piece of chalk from one of her preferred trouser pockets, and circled the impressions.

_Honestly,_ Sherlene thought. _Why does Scotland Yard keep missing little things like this? Is it no wonder Lanner had not a clue about the other three men despite the obvious traces? Blessington is not the sort of man to walking around the house in muddy shoes._

The Woman Detective however did not share these particular thoughts as she stood back up, putting the chalk back into her pocket. Instead, she looked back up at the chandelier hook, then the fireplace, and then back put at the chandelier hook again. If she was right, the three men could not have known about the chandelier hook until they got in. Most people do not bother to look up unless they had a reason to.

Sherlene moved back to the fireplace and picked up the long screwdriver that Lanner had pointed out to her from the mantelpiece. She gave the chandelier hook one last glanced and then used the screwdriver to shift through the brunt up remains of firewood and paper in the firebox. Finding nothing of interest, she placed the screwdriver down and thought for a moment.

Getting another idea, the woman pulled the ash tray out of the fire box and shifted it around using her fingers, not caring if her hands got dirty. She had her fingers in things far worse and messier then ash before. Her search proved successful when she pulled out a screw from under the ash, then another then two more.

Satisfied that she now had all the answers she needed from the room, she pushed the tray back under the firebox and stood up, placing the screws and the screwdriver back onto the mantelpiece.

"The actual facts are very simple," Sherlene said, brushing her hands off against her trousers, "I should be surprised if by the afternoon I cannot give you the reasons for them as well."

"But Holmes," Watson spoke up at last, conveying the loss and confusion that the three men were feeling, "Can't you tell us anything now?"

For a second, Sherlene was confused on why Watson was asking. But she quickly realized that she had left the three men in the dark about her findings. Where she saw answers, they saw ash, cigar ends, a puff of hair, sole impressions and screws.

"There is no doubt to the sequence of events," Sherlene began to explain what she learned, "There were three of them in it. A young man, an old man, and a third, to whose identity I have no clue."

Sherlene, Lanner and Watson had all caught the look of realization on Trevelyan's face.

"The first two, I need hardly remark were the same who masqueraded as the Russian Count and his son," Sherlene said, regaining attention, "So we can give a very good description of them, can we not Dr. Trevelyan?"

Trevelyan gave a confirming nod.

Sherlene continued, "They were admitted by a confederate. _Inside_ the house."

In her mind's eye, she could see the three men walking into the house in the dark. She could see the old Russian, no longer hunched but standing at his full height, as his stooped shoulders were only a ruse, a part of his catalepsy disguise. He was the leading the pack. She could see the younger Russian in the middle, holding a candle-lit lamp up near his head. It could not have been a gas lamp, as it would have stronger light and attract attention. Moreover, gas lamps do not leak wax onto the floor carpet.

She had no physical description of the third man, but her imagination made him look like a rather brawny but not very tall fellow…about as tall as the young Russian. Her imagination drew him with a strong chin, a mustache and not completely bald head, but she did not allow her brain to over-imagine this third person any more than that. But she did know he would have been in the back…and if she was right, he would be carrying a large block under his arm.

As there had been no traces of any forced entry on the front door or the door to the hall then they must have been let it…by the missing young page, who was most likely bribed to let them in. It could not have been the maid, as she was still here in the house. If she had been an asset, the three would have no choice but to take her with them.

"They entered the hall…" Sherlene continued, "The older man first, the younger man second, and the unknown man in the rear. They ascended the stairs. With the help of a wire, they forced the key."

She beckoned the men to the door and pointed to the scratches on the keyhole.

"Even without the lens," Sherlene told them as they either leaned or knelt down to look at the keyhole, "You can see where the pressure has been applied."

She rose again and walked back to the bed, miming the movements of the three men to give her audience an idea of what happened next as she explained. "On entering the room, the first preceding must have been to gag Mr. Blessington."

Her mind's eye conjured up the image of Blessington, sleeping in not quite-restful sleep. She could see the young Russian man use his hands to keep Mr. Blessington from making a sound as he abruptly awoke. The unknown man grabbed Blessington's arms and held them out for the old Russian man to secure together with a rope.

"Having secured Blessington, it is evident to me that a consultation of some sort was held…" Sherlene explained further, stopping all miming movements and sat on side of the bed. "…probably in the nature of a juridical proceeding. It must have lasted for some time for then it was then that the cigars were smoked." She pointed to the wicker chair Watson had been sitting in. "It was there that the older man sat, in the wicker chair. It was he who used the cigar holder." She pointed to the chair in front of the chest of drawers. "The younger man sat there. He knocked his ash off against the chest of drawers. The unknown fellow paced up and down. Blessington, I think, sat upright in the bed, but of that I can't be absolutely certain. It ended, of course, by them…taking…Blessington…"

Sherlene could not find it within herself to finish the sentence. Instead, she used her hands to convey what her audience should now already know. The three villains had hauled Blessington to the end of the bed, someone threw the rope onto the hook, and they put the noose around Blessington's neck, then a black hood onto his head. They forced him to stand on the box, tied the end of the rope to the window bars and they pulled the box out from under him.

Sherlene shuddered a little. Sometimes the imagination was too much…

"Now this matter was so prearranged that it is my belief that they brought with them some sort of block or pulley to serve as a gallows."

The incredulity look from Lanner did not escape her eye.

"Oh yes, a gallows, inspector. This was a revenge ritual."

It took Lanner a second to regain himself after listening attentively to Sherlene's findings. "What a…an extraordinary story. But what proof?"

"I'll have it before the day's out," the woman promised, raising up from the bed, grabbing her skirt.

"You haven't explained about the screws and the screwdriver," the inspector pointed.

"Oh, that was to fix up the block or pulley. But when they saw the chandelier hook, they naturally saved themselves the trouble. Now inspector, I suggest, that you immediately make inquiries about the page and arrest him."

"Certainly Miss Holmes," Lanner agreed.

Sherlene took out her pocket watch to check the time. "I will be back here a little before three o'clock."

She threw the skirt uncaring of what the men would think onto her shoulder, and said good day as she left the room. She had a lot of work to do.

* * *

><p>*Inspector Lanner is named in the book but not in the TV series. He is credited simply as "The Inspector"<p>

*_Felo de se_ is Latin for "Felon of Himself." Up until 1961, it was a part of English common law for suicides to be considered a crime, thus the victim was considered a felon upon himself. This is because England saw suicide as a corrupt, criminal felony against the King/Queen and God. Therefore, Blessington would be considered a felon had this been an actual suicide his executioners wanted it to look.


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: Well, the final poll votes are now in.

A Scandal in Bohemia = 3 votes  
>The Red-Headed League = 3 votes<br>The Greek Interpreter = 3 votes  
>The Blue Carbuncle = 2 votes<br>The Greek Interpreter = 2 votes  
>Other? = 1 votes<br>Shoscombe Old Place = 0 votes

The Winners of the three way tie is located at the bottom of the page.

* * *

><p><strong>The Resident Patient<strong>

Watson blinked dumbfoundedly when he entered the sitting room. It had been getting close to the time Sherlene had told Inspector Lanner and Dr. Trevelyan that she would return to Brook Street with the proof Lanner asked for. He had planned to go and fetch his wayward Bohemian friend, thinking he would find her contently smoking a pipe in her favorite chair with the evidence in hand.

He had not expected to find the sitting room approximately covered in newspapers, books and sheets of paper. The floor, the chairs, the settee, the dining table, his desk and Sherlene's, the sideboard, the shelves, and even Sherlene's lab table were almost buried in pages of white. And the Bohemian lady was still throwing papers everywhere in suppressed but quite clear vexation.

"I dare say Mrs. Hudson would be a little put out when she sees all this," Watson announced to Sherlene, who pointedly ignored him and continued flinging paper around.

"What are you looking for?" He finally asked, hoping to prevent an even bigger mess for Mrs. Hudson to clean up and to save his and Sherlene's hides. He knew that if their landlady saw the mess while they were still around, Mrs. Hudson would not hold back on either of them, even though the Doctor had nothing to do with the mess. Watson really was not looking forward to another round of dodging Mrs. Hudson infamous head smacks, and knew Sherlene wasn't in for it either.

"Worthington!" Sherlene answered, almost shouting while still throwing papers around "W! Worthington! March 1880, I'm sure!"

"March '80?"

Watson moved through the mess, trying to avoid stepping on the papers but it was a mostly futile attempt. He made it to the shelf, found the box marked 1880 and pulled out the folders. He read off the folders named by the months until he reached March. He left the other folders on the dining table and brought the folder over to Sherlene.

"Any good?" Watson asked, holding up the folder

Sherlene stopped throwing papers around and snatched the folder out of Watson's hand. She opened it enthusiastically, shifted some of the papers around until she found an old newspaper, containing five headshots on its front page. She pointed to the headshot that contained a very familiar-looking face.

"Blessington!" Watson said

"Or Sutton, as he was known then," Sherlene added.

The woman closed the folder, stood up, put the folder under her arm and hurried out of the sitting room with Watson following, sparing a few glances at the mess they were leaving behind.

The doctor quickly closed the door as he and Sherlene paused to grab their hats.

"Mrs. Hudson," Sherlene said pleasantly to the old lady as she was just now coming down the stairs from the second floor, having finished cleaning Watson's room. Sherlene practically jogged away, but Watson found himself held up with Mrs. Hudson.

"Your little boat is coming along beautifully doctor," Mrs. Hudson said with a smile

Watson felt himself starting to perspire with panic. "Oh thank you, Mrs. Hudson," Watson said, glancing nervously at the sitting room door. "I…must run."

And the doctor very nearly did as he headed after his companion.

Noting her lady tenet had not been wearing her skirt, Mrs. Hudson decided this would be a perfect opportunity to give a good decent washing to the piece of clothing. Despite Sherlene's outright dislike for skirts, she had some attachment to the black skirt she wore most of the time to conceal her trousers. The attachment was to the point where Sherlene had outright refused Mrs. Hudson's offers to wash it, saying she would wash it herself. Even though the Bohemian was not as skilled at doing laundry as well as the landlady was.

Having seen both her tenets come from the sitting room, Mrs. Hudson reasoned the skirt would most likely be there or in Sherlene's bedroom.

She pushed the door open.

Outside, the Woman Detective and the Doctor all but dived into the nearest cab when they heard Mrs. Hudson's exasperated scream. The prospect of staying at a hotel for the night sounded rather good in both their minds.

* * *

><p>Miss Holmes was going to be late, Lanner thought to himself as he thanked Nora for the cup of coffee she poured for him. The poor maid was uncomfortable at being in the Blessington's bedroom now; the memory of his limp body still fresh in her mind. Yet her sense of duty outweighed her discomfort as she was now in the room, serving coffee and a pastry for her young doctor master and the inspector. Although she avoided looking up fully, staring mostly at the floor, only looking up to make sure she was serving the right person. Lanner and Trevelyan said nothing about it, both them understanding her plight.<p>

The bedroom door opened causing everyone's attention to shift towards it.

Sherlene, once again skirt-less, stepped into the room, looking somewhat pleased. "Dr. Trevelyan," the woman greeted, before walking over to Lanner. "Any news Inspector?"

"Yes ma'am," Lanner answered as Watson shook hands with Trevelyan behind him and Sherlene, "We got the page; drinking his earnings to streets away."

"And I got the men," Sherlene announced

For the third time today, Sherlene saw surprise on Lanner's face. "You've got them?"

Sherlene opened the folder she brought along. "Or at least, I got their identities."

As she showed the newspaper headshots to Lanner, Trevelyan interested in what he was hearing from the Woman Detective and the Inspector, turned to face them as Nora politely handed Watson a cup of coffee.

"The Worthington Bank Gang?" Lanner said, astonished at the discovery

"Precisely," Sherlene said, half-smiling in victory

"Well…then Blessington must have been Sutton!"

"Exactly!"

"Well! That makes it as clear as crystal!"

"Um…" Trevelyan spoke up, curiosity and confusion almost overwhelming him. "Not to me I'm afraid."

Sherlene handed the newspaper to Watson, deciding to let him explain to his fellow doctor.

"You may have heard of the Great Worthington Bank Affair?" Watson asked.

Trevelyan gave a short nod.

"There were five men in it," Watson explained, "The three who were in this room, a fourth named Cartwright." He turned the newspaper to show the mug shot of Blessington/Sutton to the young doctor. "And Blessington."

* * *

><p><em><span>March 1880<span>_

Sutton kept watch from his post near the vaults as Cartwright kept the caretaker, whom they captured and forced him to unlock the door, at gunpoint. Biddle, Hayward and Moffat finished up cleaning the vaults of their valuables.

"Alright!" Biddle*, the oldest and most experienced man of the gang, said "Let's get going!"

Quickly the four burglars left the vault room as Cartwright backed the caretaker into the room, intending on locking him up in there under Sutton's order. But when Cartwright look away for a second, the guard dove at him, intending on taking the pistol away from him. But Cartwright pushed him away, raised his pistol and fired.

Biddle and Sutton, having heard the gunfire ran back to the vault. They found the caretaker on the floor and Carthwright smirking over him.

Biddle checked the caretaker, looking for a pulse in his neck. But he found none.

"It's a hanging job now," Biddle told Cartwright

"Only if someone squeals," Cartwright said his rat-like face grinning happily, almost playfully pointing the pistol in Sutton's face.

Sutton frowned deeply.

Cartwright had become too much of a loose cannon. Despite him ordering that no one is to be killed during their raid on the bank, Cartwright was apparently too eager to pull the trigger with absolutely no regard for the consequences. Now he was proving that he was too cocky to believe no one would rat him out.

But the last thing Sutton wanted to be was to be accused of being a murderer. He could handle the dishonor of being a burglar but not the dishonor of a murderer.

* * *

><p><em>1880 - A Couple Weeks later<em>

From the safety of the cab, Sutton, handcuffed to the Inspector whom he had turned himself over to, watched as a group of policemen dragged a struggling Cartwright out of his home building and into the street, where a prison cell carriage was awaiting him.

"That's him."

"Are you positive?" the Inspector asked

Sutton leaned a bit to get a better look, exposing himself into view. "Oh yes. That's him."

Cartwright, still struggling, looked up and saw the nearby hansom. His eyes blazed with angry fire at the betrayal. "Sutton!" he shouted

Sutton ducked out of view as Cartwright continued shouting as he was shoved into the carriage, "Sutton, you're dead! Sutton! Sutton! Sutton, you're dead! Sutton, you hear, you're dead!"

"Don't worry, Mr. Sutton," the Inspector said trying to be comforting, "It's a hanging job now."

But the Inspector's words were not enough to comfort Sutton. Cartwright's words were not just a threat but a promise. Even if Cartwright could not do it, Biddle, Hayward, and Moffat would do so. They had plenty of time plan while they were in prison.

* * *

><p>"Sutton, or Blessington, who was the worst of the gang turned in formally," Watson explained from where he sat next to the fireplace, "On his evidence, Cartwright was hanged. And the other three got fifteen years of peace"<p>

Sherlene blew a small puff of smoke from the cigarette she had lit, a cup of coffee and a piece of pasty sitting ignored on a tray on Blessington's strong box, in front of her. "Bindle, Hayward, and Moffat were released from prison just a few weeks ago. It was several years before their full term. It was news of their release which caused Blessington to panic and have this house secured."

"So," Trevelyan said, sitting next to the other end of the strong box, his cup of coffee sitting ignored as well on the lid, "It was not the fear of burglary that had frighten him."

"No, no, no, that was a mere blind," Watson said, taking using his fork to cut the piece of pastry Nora had given him

"And so setting me up in practice was an elaborate charade to protect himself," Trevelyan sighed as the realization sank into his mind.

He paused for a few moments, letting the realization filter further. Watson glanced at him, a little worried, but Trevelyan spoke up again to ask Sherlene, "But why could he not tell you this?"

"He was trying to hide his own identity from everybody for as long as he could," she answered

Lanner nodded his agreement. "His secret was shameful. And he couldn't bring himself to divulge it."

"However," Sherlene spoke up, "Wretch as he was, he was still living under the shield of British Law. And I have no doubt Inspector that we shall see, although that shield may fail to guard, the sword of justice is still there to avenge."

* * *

><p>But in spite Sherlene's efforts, the three murderers of Blessington eluded the police and fled the country on a ship, named the <em>Norah Creina<em>, bound for Portugal.

However, it was a few weeks later after the escape that Sherlene and Watson learned that the _Norah Creina_ had sunk with all hands lost, off the Portuguese coast, some leagues to the north of the city of Oporto. Upon hearing this news, Sherlene smiled almost secretly to herself and happily went back to smoking her pipe.

The next day, after closing up his practice for the day, due to lack of patients, Watson decided it was time for him to write this interesting incident on Brook Street. The facts were still fresh in his mind, but if he did not write them down now, they would easily be lost or unintentionally altered. He was looking forward to some quiet time now that the excitement of the case had finally calmed.

But much to his dismay, when he reached the door to 221B, he could hear the cheerful sounds of Sherlene's violin playing through an open window.

Normally, expect for her late night playing, Watson hardly minded Sherlene's violin playing. She was quite skilled and talented with the instrument. Watson had no doubt if Sherlene was not so enfolded in criminal investigation, she could have made her living as a musician. But at the moment, he wanted some peace and quiet for his concentration.

When he entered the sitting room, he saw Sherlene perched on the edge of her desk, lost in her playing. Holding his annoyance back, the doctor plumped himself down in front of his desk, opened his notebook to a blank page, turned to Sherlene's direction, sighed and called her name over the noise.

Sherlene finished one last note before removing the violin from its perch on her shoulder as she turned. "What's wrong?" she asked

Watson let out a puff of air, trying to keep his annoyance from slipping. "Well, it was just I was going to spend the day writing. The case of Dr. Trevelyan while the facts are still fresh."

"Oh you mean…" She held up the violin and the bow. "Oh, I understand."

Watson sighed in relief, grateful for Sherlene's understanding. She may not express any interest in his writings of their adventures together, but she understood it was just as important to him as music was important was to her. "Thanks awfully," he thanked. "It is just…difficult to concentrate otherwise."

He turned back to his notebook, picked up his pen and began to write. But just as he finished writing the title, he heard Sherlene asked a question towards him. "Uh…what will you intend to this particular account?"

Watson let out a small laugh. "I didn't know you were interested in my writing," he said, turning back to her.

"I'm always interested in your choice of titles," Sherlene stated.

Now that she mentioned it, Watson did recall that while Sherlene did not care of his descriptions of their adventures, she always expressed curiosity in his title choices. In fact, the doctor could remember that several titles of the accounts were made by Sherlene's suggestion.

"Well…" Watson started, turning in his chair a little more "I thought I'd call it _The_ _Brook Street Mystery_.'"

Sherlene frowned and sent him an implausible look.

"No?" Watson asked

"Well, I myself would prefer _The Resident Patient_," Sherlene answered, "But please don't let me influence you. _The_ _Brook Street Mystery_ no doubt would suffice."

Having said her opinion, Sherlene rose from her perch on her desk and took her violin into her room, closing the door behind her. The cheerful notes of the song she was performing earlier rose up from behind the door, but they were muffled at a more tangible level that Watson could live with. Since she respected his need to write in some form of quiet, he would show her the same courtesy by allowing her to continue her playing.

Watson looked back at his notebook, mumbling to himself of the title he had already written down. Now that he thought of it, _The Brook Street Mystery_ was rather dull title for this interesting affair.

He crossed out the title, and thought for a second. Under the crossed out title, he wrote _The Brook Street Patient_.

He looked up hearing the music go sour and it paused. He heard Sherlene's growl but then her say of "Ah!" and the music started up again.

Watson found himself crossing out the second title. Somehow it just did not the right ringing to the adventure as Brook Street was known for its patients.

Resigning himself, Watson wrote down _The Resident Patient_.

Suddenly, the title just seemed to fit.

Watson smiled and underlined the title. Sherlene may not have an interest in writing, but she always had good title choices. Maybe he should allow her to entitle his accounts from now on.

* * *

><p>*The Russian Count. It is not revealed in the book which of the three men is the old man, the young man, and the third man. Even the TV Series does not have a clue, so I took the liberty of naming the old man Biddle.<p>

* * *

><p><strong>3rd Place Winner<strong>:  
>The Red-Headed League<p>

**2nd Place Winner**:  
>The Greek Interpreter<p>

**1st Place Winner**:  
>A Scandal in Bohemia<p>

So the next Sherlene AU story is **A Scandal in Bohemia**, followed by **The Greek Interpreter**, and then **The Red-Headed League**. We'll meet **Irene Alder**, **Mycroft Holmes** and even a sign of **Professor Moriarty**! Till next time!


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